


Los Santos Burns Bright

by aiIenzo



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Drabble, Fake AH Crew, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 23:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4764965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiIenzo/pseuds/aiIenzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But they always burn brighter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Los Santos Burns Bright

**Author's Note:**

> Short drabble and headcannon.   
> Because reasons.   
> Feel free to comment your own headcannons, I thrive on them <3

They get high from the sound of sirens. Bullets strike the car, a zippered sound like the crash of a wave, and Michael laughs, chaotic and breathless, never allowing the fear to infiltrate the bright of his eyes, the shine. There is madness there, but controlled, sated, feeding heavily on the relinquished caution that they let slip between their fingers night after night, greedy for these sounds, these lights. 

He drives, he always drives, and there will be thick black marks on this street in the morning. Cars swerve to avoid them, crashing together in a horrible crunch of metal on metal and bodies through glass. Ray grins at him from the passenger seat, his body unchecked by a seat-belt and a rifle across his shoulder. There’s blood on his skin and he’s elevated, high from reality and overdosing his senses. Three bags of cash are tossed carelessly in the seat behind them. Bills are flying through the windows, caught in the rush of air as they speed through the streets of Los Santos, their minds blown on a value greater than money. Unattainable unless you had the guts. 

They lose the cops. They always do, taking dangerous routes and surviving through sheer intimidation. And there, underneath the darkness of a bridge, they ride out their highs, two uncontrollable forces meeting until they become a calamity of blood-stained skin and frantic passion. Mouths and bones, sweat and manic desire. Cash lies forgotten in the throes of wanton lust. 

It hadn’t started this way. To say it was an evolution would dismount the severity of it; to label it a climb through the ranks implied planning, strategic footholds into a criminal mindset that required a practiced air of professionalism. Bullet holes in their ceiling and mags across the floor cautioned otherwise. Whiskey and pills scattered on the counter, money blown on chrome cars and pink rifles and a penthouse instead of a safe house promised otherwise. 

They had been friends, roommates, struggling against the cruel fate of the city and it’s inescapable shit storm of violence and betrayal. Michael had promised a way out, every day, words ringing against the shouts outside their windows, the gunfire down in the city, but he kept a constant air of guarantee to them, and Ray believed. He did. 

Michael had snapped and took his father’s gun, a beautiful piece that was meant for display, not for robbing a gas station, but when Michael returned, his face alight, his heart racing and his eyes sharp with a fire Ray had never seen, he knew that it was Los Santos that had made the mistake that night. Pushed him to the breaking point. Because as Michael dumped the duffel bag of cash across Ray’s outstretched legs, he shone with promise, with greed, and with passion. He wasn’t ever going to stop. Not until he claimed the city. 

And Ray joined him. 

They were unstoppable, careless, free. They flowed together as separate entities, like oil and water, balancing and covering tracks in their reckless abandon. Ray’s mastery of rifles was a work of art, a groove he slipped into and never returned, quickly finding his niche and working silently and swiftly, covering Michael’s frantic pace with rounds that shot like electricity from his very bones.

Michael preferred the ground, loose asphalt beneath his sneakers and the chemical smells of bad crack assaulting his senses. His fists were perpetually bloody, bandages wrapped his fingers as a precaution, a necessity, and the sick delight in his eyes was matched only by his ferocity in firefights. Often Ray would join him, breathing in the smoke and hearing the screams at point blank range just to get that one, quick glance of Michael in his element that would send blood straight to his dick. Michael, covered in dust and blood, taking them down, spraying the ground with casings and splashes of red. He was chaos, nothing but rage and bloodlust and bullets as he moved, dodging for cover to meet Ray’s eyes and wink, heavy breathing and wood splintering around him from returning fire. 

They stole, they killed, they  _lived_ , and with every day that passed they became better at stealing, at killing, at living; the closer they got to death, the more they could feel the blood in their veins, the taste of each other’s flesh. The more they felt of each other, the less they felt the wounds, the grazes, the broken bones and the busted hands. They’d hide their cars and flee to the penthouse, nothing but crazed laughter and blood on their keycards. 

There is nothing but them. Skin against skin under expensive sheets with a thread count to match their kill count, and the stars through their window paled in comparison of their passion. There is nothing but them. The world outside them was stories below, the people fighting their own battles with words and guns and smoke, a thick, heavy atmosphere they left behind for only a moment, just one moment. A moment to be nothing but  _them_.

And they were everything. They were the city, and the city was them. 

And when Michael piles the bodies into the cheap car outside the warehouse, Ray takes his time dousing all of it with the jerrycan, watching the gas run down the windows, watching the clothes on the dead men struggle to soak up anything other than the thick blood that seeped from the holes in their bodies. He’s half drunk, and Michael is watching him, a smirk on his face and lust in his eyes. The stars are bright, but they are always brighter. 

They watch it burn, a flick of a lighter and a crazed smile on Michael’s lips. Ray can never help himself, and he pulls Michael into him by the collar of his jacket, lips meeting with heavy arousal and the lingering promise of a good night. 

Fingers curl in hair and the bodies burn behind them, illuminating their figures and casting shadows against the skyline.

They were the city. They  _owned_ the city. 

Los Santos burns bright, but they always burn brighter.


End file.
